All urban areas – whether in France, England or wherever – are growing more ominous, though they do vary in whether the menace is mostly just that or a prelude to violence. I should qualify by saying very touristy areas, say Central Oxford, are mostly ‘better’. But go to the central parts of Oxford that aren’t overrun with tourists and it’s increasingly a zone for drugs and the mentally ill, with boarded-up shops, street-boozers and gangs of Middle Eastern/Albanian blokes lurking in shop doors. The menace is palpable.
And not all historic cities are as good! There’s one which is astonishing given its fame, albeit a past with a grim aura: Richard III was, of course, Duke of Gloucester, and I believe in historical resonance. Edward II has a magnificent tomb, in the stunning cathedral; he was murdered by having a red-hot poker shoved up his backside.
I spent Bank Holiday Monday there; metaphorical link intended. It’s a truly awful city, seriously wrong in feel. The magnificent Gothic cathedral forms a bizarre oasis, approached down a charming alley but hemmed in by vape shops, dope smoking, drug dealing, injecting and feral kids on bikes. Very little else that’s medieval survives, in part due to its 19th-century industrial heritage.
Gloucester always was a weird place, but it’s now completely dystopian. The regenerated Quays area of old warehouses – full of designer shops, flats and restaurants – is vaguely pleasant, but doesn’t remotely compensate. Not least when some festival is blaring out that moronic political theme-tune to Tony Blair: ‘Things Can Only Get Better’.
Easy to see how the Wests operated unnoticed. Some of the locals look alarmingly similar to Fred and Rose: heaven knows what’s under their patios or in their cellars. To be fair, everyone I spoke with – I make a habit of random conversations in new places – was disarmingly cheerful, on how frightful the place was. A delightful woman said the council had simply knocked down almost anything worth preserving but were now pondering rebuilding it somehow…
The nearby Forest of Dean is like England’s Deep South and sits brooding, very close. Keir Smarmer wouldn’t dare set foot there; it would be like Deliverance for him! Imagine the prancing ninny dragged into some pub to discuss ‘what a woman is’ with the cheery locals.
I’d pay to witness it.
Paul Sutton can be found on Substack. His new book on woke issues The Poetry of Gin and Tea is out now.
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